


For You I Would Die

by Iris_the_Messenger



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Blindfolds, Childhood Trauma, Consensual Sex, Dreams, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Romance, Soft bondage, Trust Issues, Unhappy Childhood, safe word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_the_Messenger/pseuds/Iris_the_Messenger
Summary: "When trust is solidified, a couple enters an orbit of emotional security surrounding the marriage/relationship, a security that allows for the potential of deeper emotional sharing and sexual exploration and expression."
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	For You I Would Die

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been playing with, and it got a little angsty along the way. What was once supposed to be pure smut, caught a lot of feelings along the way. But I am owning it, and hope everyone enjoys ~

~ * ~

He still suffered from the nightmares. Loath as he was to admit it, at his age. Unbidden, unwanted fears and trauma from days past, from a childhood wrought with undeserved spite and hatred. The hisses of contempt as he and his mother passed members of his father’s court, the conspiring of jealous relatives. The attempts on their lives, more his than her’s as he grew older, and the terror hidden in the shadows, like a snake waiting to strike out at him, keeping him on edge and afraid. The refuse thrown at his feet and face by children his own age for the slight of his mere presence, the deep pain of rejection, physical and emotional, it inflicted upon his heart.

So, he learned to keep himself safe. He guarded his heart, kept a weary eye on his older brothers and family, saving his trust and love only for his parents, his mother, brave, strong and so clever. His father, charismatic and cunning, ever loyal to the warrior-goddess who had taken his heart all those years ago and the son they had brought into the world.

They loved him fiercely, and raised him the best they could, though it hurt them to do so, training him harshly in the art of subterfuge and survival. He could feel it, with every harsh lesson and word, their love and desperation: _Survive, always be a step ahead of them, habibi. Don’t let them see you fall._

He thinks he can let the mask slip a little when he takes his place at his grandfather’s side, thinks it has to be better than the cruel embrace of his desert homeland, and he finds himself proven wrong no sooner than when he steps upon Fódlan soil. His grandfather, with eyes as green as his, as green as his mother’s sweep over him with such reluctance, it makes him shift uneasy in place under the weight of his gaze. He can almost imagine his thoughts: _You are not wanted, but you are needed._

Still, despite this reluctant acceptance, Claude thinks he can rest easy for once. The men and women of his grandfather’s household take him in with weary eyes, the whispers a familiar lull in the halls to ears, but they seem harmless compared to the more brazen vipers he grew up with. He is harshly corrected in his assumptions when his carriage is attacked, delivering him back to the Riegan estate from an outing into the city, and he suspects his grandfather’s political rivals hands at work upon finding alliance coin in the fallen bandit’s purse.

His sudden appearance is met with great suspicion throughout the Alliance, his strange looks and conduct commented upon with scorn, and he berates himself for thinking he could relax in his mother’s birth land.

He sleeps lightly, weapon of some sort always on hand or within reach. He remains diligent, plays the game the Alliance nobles thrust upon him, adapting to their style. It’s all the same in the end, just the slight alteration in aesthetics. Much like their dancing, it is rigid, but the steps simple enough to follow and soon he is able to outmaneuver them, deflect their constant questions and quarrels with a well-practiced smile and ready tongue.

But that was a time long ago now, war and reformation had long since taken over his days and nights and those terrors had subsided. Substantially so, since those dark days, but every now and then he would wake in a cold sweat, eyes wild, reaching for his dagger only to find comforting arms and soft tresses of seafoam instead. His starlight, chasing the shadows away as they whispered softly into his ear, words of comfort and love, easing his fractured soul throughout the long night until a peaceful slumber overtook him. Then, he was safe. Safe and loved.

“Are you ready?” His wife asks softly, sitting in front of him on their much too large, shared bed.

Before him now is a dream. A blessed dream made of corporeal moonlight, soft and real to the touch, dressed in a chemise of muslin so sheer and light it seemed ethereal on her already divine figure. His beloved, his wife, his queen. The bringer of all his hopes and dreams, and many promises still yet to come, the future bright and unlimited before them.

Spilling over her fingers, scarred and calloused from years as a mercenary, yet surprisingly still so soft, lay golden silk.

It’s late in the evening, their palace in Almyra quiet and steady in its usual nighttime rhythms: guards patrolling the long halls, candlelight low and warm, a soft breeze in the air carrying with it the perfume of the royal gardens, jasmine and desert rose, outside of their bedroom windows. Claude takes it all in while his senses are all still available to him, and it comforts him deeply.

There’s a sense of peace here, in this moment, a peace and security he has long yearned for throughout his life and is for them, and them alone. He is grateful, thanks to the groundwork they have done, the friends and allies they have made, the work becomes less and less each day, towards the bright, shining future they are striving towards. They can find moments like these more often, allowed to indulge in the peace and quiet they have earned. Allowed to finally indulge in each other, to relax and enjoy a moment of respite despite the world outside their bedroom doors.

He reaches out, taking the silk from her hands. He feels it between his fingers, the delicate fabric soft, made from high quality material. It had been a gift, he smirks softly, from Lorenz. One of many lavish fabrics he had gifted the royal couple on their wedding day, along with an assortment of teas and high-quality china. What would his old rival, if he could even be called that then, now at least he was a dear friend and staunch ally, and classmate think of them if he knew what part his lovely wedding gift was to play in their little game tonight?

“Do you remember the words we discussed?” He asks, and she nods. He knows its unnecessary, of course she remembers the words. But he needs the affirmation, in this moment, more for himself than for her sake.

As if sensing his rising anxiousness, Byleth reaches out and caresses the side of his jaw gently, bringing his verdant gaze to her. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can always try another night, my hart.”

He smiles, shaking his head as he covers her hand with his own. “I am fine, my love. I am the one who suggested this, after all. What fun would it be if I backed out now?”

“Only if your sure, Khalid…” She searches his eyes, which she had always been able to discern with her unnatural sense of observation. “Only if it will make you happy, if it doesn’t we stop. Just say the words and I will stop, ok?”

He nods, and she presses her forehead against his own.

They savor the moment, a few breathes, as she listens to the steady beating of his heart, which jumps out of rhythm in his growing excitement and nervousness. His birth name on her tongue, in this private world that is solely theirs, washes over him in a wave of repose. It settles him, with the knowledge that while he remains clothed, he is already lain bare before her. For there is no one in this plane of existence, not even his own parents, who knows him like she does. Every secret he had ever held close to his heart, his hopes and dreams, his fears and doubts, now her’s to cherish and keep.

To her, he was as much Claude von Riegan as he was Khalid Ibn al-Mahdi. To think he had once trembled in apprehension upon revealing his true identity to her, despite the confident air he had tried to present at the same time.

He remembered, when he had finally returned to Fódlan, newly united under her banner of Flames and still in the process of recovering, in the wake of the insurrection how he had climbed the steps leading to her throne to present himself before her. He had brought with him an army, whose strength had bolstered her own, desperate and near defeat as they made their last stand in Derdrui.

It was a bold step forward, his mother had been proud, one meant to be the first of many to show the newly formed solidarity between the two kingdoms and their monarchs. As he, a young and ambitious king, dressed in all his golden regalia, bent his knee to the warrior-queen of the newly United Fódlan, Seteth’s booming voice filled the great hall of Garreg Mach, announcing him proper as befitting his grand title: _Khalid Ibn al-Mahdi, son of Javed Ibn al-Mahdi, Shah of Almyra brings tidings of peace and friendship…_

He had tensed, despite his outward appearance of reverence and calm, as whispers rippled through the room. Stunned and suspicious, they had known him as their grand duke, the man who had helped them win the five-year war against the Empire. The same man who had mysteriously vanished months ago, abandoning his lands and allies in the care of their new queen. He had raised his eyes, hesitant, to meet those of his betrothed. Would she even still want him after this? After he had lied to her, would she stare down at him with those reluctant, yet accepting eyes like his grandfather had all those years ago?

_You are not wanted, but you are needed._

Looking up, he feels a harsh gust blow through his soul, leaving him breathless and weak in the knees at the unconditional love that radiated from bright, jade eyes. His teacher, his best friend, had always been unmatched in their seemingly ever-present poker face, stoic and unflinching on and off the battlefield but here, in this moment, receiving not only a foreign sovereign, but a long cherished companion, her love, Byleth’s eyes were moist, shining with happiness and subsidy at his return.

_You are wanted, and I’ve been waiting for you, my love._

Those same eyes look at him now, offering him a gentle smile as she takes the golden scarf from his hands. He lets it slip from his grasp, watching her as she moves, crawling into his lap. He groaned, a low vibration in his throat, her heat welcome against his own as she settled over him.

_You are wanted. You are loved. You are safe._

She kisses him, lips lush and warm, her fingers ghosting the sides of his face as she brings the soft fabric carefully over his eyes, eclipsing his vision of her lovely visage and the dim candlelight of their bedroom. Leaving him in complete darkness, she does not break the kiss. She knows he needs to feel her, sensing the rising tension in his body. They take their time, unhurried, moving against each other slowly, rhythmically, as he tries to lose himself in the comforting sensation that is his beloved.

_You are safe_.

He feels his fingers dig into their bed sheets, in response to losing one of his major senses. A sense that has kept him alive and safe for years. _No_ , he breathes. _Relax._

She pulls away, but only a little, her breath hot against his face. She wants him to know she is there, that she is always close, as she finishes tying the scarf tight behind his head, letting her hands trail over his broad shoulders to his chest. She can feel his heartbeat becoming erratic and does her best to soothe him, her hands rubbing slow, easing circles over his heart.

“Are you ok?” He nods, taking a steadying breath.

This game is his own doing. Ever curious, always pushing his limits, the idea had struck him on a whim one night while hosting Flayn and Ignatz for a quiet, intimate dinner in thanks for the devout artist’s latest work: a beautiful portrait of his wife, one he could keep to himself during long hours at his desk. The wine flowed freely, the night full with laughter and cherished memories.

Then, recalling the White Heron Cup and the ball that followed, Flayn had demonstrated, on tipsy legs, the dances she had practiced alongside their teacher. Eventually, she had managed to pull Byleth to her feet, grabbing gossamer fabric from gods-knew-where, and the pair had swayed back and forth in drunken, airy movements, their laughter contagious as their husbands watched their makeshift performance.

As they danced, Claude had been mesmerized by the way Flayn wrapped the fabric around his wife, around her arms, her neck, her eyes. In the glow of candlelight, flush with wine, the two women were the very picture of woodland nymphs, all unearthly grace and green hair, frolicking among spider’s silk. Ignatz, in a drunken haze, was struck with inspiration, immortalizing the moment on his canvas in soft pastels. Claude, in true fashion, had taken a completely different kind of inspiration from the moment as he imagined soft fabric across his own skin, wrapped around his wife’s figure, rolling around in sweetness and laughter.

With some minor alterations, of course.

She kisses him again, breaking him out of the memory and back to her as they embrace. The scent of lilies and steel consumes him as he reaches out, releasing the sheets, to feel her yielding flesh above him. Tonight, is for them, together. He has traversed her every curve countless times, but this was a new experience. Denied his sight, he could not visually soak in her abundance, reduced to a new form of immersion as his hands wandered the expanse of her body.

Her moans of pleasure ground him in the now as he responds to her, hips bucking upwards. It is all so familiar and yet still so new, as he feels an apprehension caging his desire, unsure of the darkness despite his wife’s breathless gasps as he kneads her breasts through the lace of her chemise. The material is so fine between his fingers, soft, as if there is nothing there at all. A thin, diaphanous, barrier between them. It would be an easy thing, even blinded as he was, to tear it apart.

However, this piece, like much of her nightwear had been personally commissioned and chosen by one of his oldest friends, and he was in no mood to explain himself to Hilda as to why, once again, he had treated the lovingly hand-picked attire so harshly. So, he settled for pulling at the shift, which his wife was only too happy to shed for his convenience. Always one for equality, she tugs at his own tunic, pulling it over his head easily as he lifts his arms for her. It is a strange thing, to undress while blindfolded, and he feels the goosebumps that shiver across his skin. He shudders, trying to shake them off. He has a singular objective right now, and he needed to focus on her.

She moans, her head falling back as he dives into her neck, lavishing her with eager kisses. One arm reaches around her, grabbing at the plush fullness of her backside, sliding up her strong back, bringing her closer as his mouth trails down, over her collarbone to her bared chest. “Claude…Khal…”

Suckling greedily, his teeth pull gently at her nipples, teasing and tasting. He is rewarded for his efforts as he feels her squirm in his lap, mewling lustfully. The heat between them building, he feels, hears, their breathing becoming frantic, though, this time for entirely different reasons than before. She pulls at him, desperate, at his face, his hair as she returns his ardor. With his other hand, he ventures between them, tickling the soft skin of her belly, fingers slipping past the band of her lacy small clothes, where she burns hottest.

He feels Byleth’s back arch in response, but he holds her fast, pressing her close while he works strong, nimble digits against her, dipping further into her wet heat to draw out her moans, hooking his fingers just so in the way he knows will drive her mad. He buries his face into her neck, nipping her earlobe, basking in her whimpers and cries as he rolls her clit expertly with his thumb. She is feverish, consumed by her rising desire, rocking wildly against his palm and it is all he needs to keep the shadows at bay in his mind, as he becomes lost in her.

“That’s it, my love…” His voice is husky, dark. His senses are overwhelmed by her, her smell, her voice, her taste, her heat. She is molten fire in his hands. He could never get enough, not in a thousand lifetimes. “Let go – I have you.”

“Claude!” She stiffens in his arms, calling out to him. He smiles, he will never tire of the way his name sounds on her tongue in these moments.

He feels her as she comes, walls clenching around his fingers tightly. She clings to him, fingers digging into corded muscle, as she rides out her orgasm. She is slick and warm, burning against his own flesh. He holds her close, as the tremors within her subside. He focuses on her breathing, on the moment as her gasps for air becomes more even.

Claude marvels at her, at them and this dream of theirs. Sometimes he doesn’t think its real, all of this, his friends and allies, how far they have come. Her.

The few partners - no, dalliances was a better word for them – he’d had were never like her. They were never his partners, they never stayed by his side, never supported him, never shared in his dreams and ambitions, not like she did. Didn’t love him like she did. Didn’t trust him like she did, and vice-versa.

They had all wanted to use him, in some way or another, to gain from his station or destroy him. One bitter commonality shared by both Almyra and Fódlan.

He recalled one young love in particular, an Almyran youth, beautiful with bright eyes, who had been sent to him on his fourteenth birthday.

_A beautiful lie. They hadn’t wanted him, either._

An assassin sent by those who despised him and his mother, who preyed upon a lonely prince in the spring of his youth. Like a carnivorous plant, beckoning with their lovely scent. Their sweet, honeyed kiss a near death sentence.

The following nights were spent writhing in pain and fever, his mother by his side the entire time as he slipped in and out of consciousness. She’d prayed to no god in particular, but she was fervent in her pleas as she and his father cried. _Let him live, gods, let him live!_

_What if I don’t want to? What’s the point?_

He’d kept mostly to himself, after that. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been poisoned, he still recalled that innocent cup of sweet juice from when he was eight, it had been a miracle he’d survived then too, and it wouldn’t be the last. Ignoring the longing in his heart the best he could, an easy task as he recalled the bitter taste of tainted honey on his tongue, he set his mind to his dreams and goals instead. If he was resigned to walking this path alone, with only the stars above to guide and keep him company, then so be it.

Except, it turned out, fate had other plans.

Byleth nuzzles into him, as he holds her tighter. Chasing the old memories, nightmares, away. His light in the darkness, his guiding star.

“Kharâbetam…” He breathes, reverent.

“Trust me?” She asks, lips brushing against his ear.

He shivered, “Always…”

And with that, she eases him back onto the bed, guiding him and he lets go.

No one has ever had or will ever have this kind of access to him. This control, it was for her and her alone. The one person he knew would never let him fall, would never run from him, or abandon him. Even when she had vanished, falling into the darkness, for over five years he hadn’t lost faith that she would return to them, to him.

The trust he had placed in her ran deep in his bones, to his very core. He could never properly explain it. It was more than puppy love, a student infatuated with their teacher/mentor. More than simple friendship, so much more he could not put a proper name to what she had come to mean to him. Others had questioned his sanity, citing his hopeless romanticism on a specter as foolhardy and reckless.

Yes, he could be reckless. He was self-aware enough to recognize his thirst for the unknown, his curiosity near-endless, as he reached for things beyond his grasp. Secrets, little tidbits here and there about his fellow classmates, would-be allies, and enemies alike. Legends, folk lore, and mythology. All of it was treasure, priceless knowledge that if possible, could always be used to his own benefit.

_Survive, always be a step ahead of them, habibi._

Exploring all the what-ifs lurking around the corner, even the ones within his own psyche.

Like now, as he lies on his back, feeling the familiar weight of his wife as she straddles him. His hips roll on instinct, seeking that welcoming heat he knows is there, desperate for contact. He has grown painfully hard at this point, straining against his breeches, demanding and impatient for her attention.

He could have used the words, the ones meant to return his sight to him, his control. A part of him was keening, wanting and impatient. To pin his wife down and slake this growing hunger.

He held his tongue, a rare occurrence. No, he wanted to see this through. This was his game, but he wanted to let go, for once. He wants her hands, her touch, her mouth. In the haze of his mind, where lust and fear battled against the darkness and the heat of his skin pressed along his wife’s, promising delicious release, both physical and emotional. He wanted that sweet oblivion, and he wanted her, Byleth, to take him there.

His fingers reach out, feeling the padded bindings he had installed earlier that day. They are soft, well-crafted cuffs attached to firm rope, specially made for this type of bedroom play, belying the restrictions they are about to condemn him to. Another freedom, willingly given up.

She takes his wrist in her hands, so small compared to his own. “Are you ready?”

The same question from earlier, offering him an out, freedom, if he so chooses.

He licks his lips. “Yeah, By…I’m good. Keep going.”

“I love you…” She leans down, closer, and he feels her press gentle kisses to his forehead, eyelids and lastly his lips.

She lingers there, and he responds, ravenously. Before he can grab her again, eager to feel more of her, she binds the wrist she had been holding. The strap is easy enough to work, and Claude feels his head fall back against the mattress.

He fights himself, breathing through his nose, exhaling in practiced form. The first restraint was in place, and he felt Byleth’s hands as they lingered, trailing down his bare arm, whispering words of praise and comfort as she moved to his other side. With just as much care, she secures the second cuff, sealing his fate. He pulled, experimentally, against the ropes.

In the darkness of his mind the restraints became small, pre-pubescent arms as they hold him down. His brothers, fueled by jealously and misguided resentment, glare down at him as they take their turns beating him. So young, so much weaker than them, and yet their shared father never looked upon them with the same love and affection as he did the little half-bred bastard he’d sired with the Fódlanese whore who had taken their mother’s place at his side. Try as she might, she would never earn their love or acceptance, and it was doubly so for the little brother they had never asked for who followed them everywhere, despite the abuse they inflicted on him. Desperate for their acceptance, their love.

_Stop following us, Khalid! We don’t want you, we never wanted you! Just die!_

He feels his wife’s soft lips and hands caress him, tender and grounding. “Stay with me, love…”

“I’m here, I’m here…” He assures, coming back to her.

_You are safe. You are loved. You are wanted._

Blind, unable to move he surrenders. The words of release are there, relaxing on the back of his tongue, just in case. The old terror is sharp, waiting to strike but he keeps it at bay.

She takes her time with him. Beginning with his lips as she lavishes long, loving kisses before traveling to the shell of his ear. He shivers, as she nips playfully at the lobe. Teasing, her tongue is lazy, yet attentive as she flicks the loop of his golden earing. It is one of her favorite things, to bat at the jewelry he has worn long since his days before he joined the academy. Like one of the many strays she used to feed at the monastery, cat-like, the gesture eases his nerves enough he allows the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards.

Usually, this type of worship is for her as her husband delights in praying upon her altar, reveling in the pleasure he brings out of his wife before any thought to his own. She caresses every scar, every mark that decorates his flesh. Etchings of a hard-won life painted throughout copper skin. Her movements are deliberate, cherishing, loving as a delicious heat pools in his stomach. She unties his breeches, taking her time, as she pulls them over his strong thighs. He is all too eager to help her, all but kicking them off with his limited mobility. He sighs, happily, as she makes her way down his neck, his chest, his stomach, and lower still…

“By -!” He rasps, twisting, only to be reminded of his restraints.

Her mouth, hot and wet, is on him, and – Ah! His hips lift off the mattress. There it is, that sweet confliction, as she wraps her tongue around him. She knows how to play him to her tune, but his body is unsure, and he is left breathless as he edges between sweet surrender and hesitance. Her tongue finds the spot, a thick vein along his shaft, and works it mercilessly as she moves up and down, gifting his head with a few well-timed licks. Her teeth graze his flesh with each movement, and he jolts, gasping pitifully at the combination of pain and pleasure.

His fight or flight instinct begins to kick in again, and he pulls at the ropes holding him down. He has to get away, he has to hide, no, no, no – he wants her to finish! Gods, he needs her to finish!

“Byleth – Eshgham!” He pants, begging. “P-please…!”

She is cruel, because he doesn’t say the words, and so she slows her pace, leaving him a thrashing, babbling mess. His tongue is thick with his mother language, words she doesn’t know or has not yet learned falling into the air with every ragged breath. But they are not _The Words_ , so she ignores them, let’s them wash over her as she continued her slow, sweet torture. Pure, wet heat leaves his mind scattered as she drags her tongue along his cock, from the base of the shaft to the head where she flicks the tip across the slit of his head.

“F-fuck…” He grits his teeth, toes curling as he pulls harder at his bindings. He swears he could snap them now, as she peppers soft kisses along his throbbing manhood, only to suck him back into her mouth in one, exquisitely harsh, movement.

He wants to knot his fingers in her hair, to guide her mouth as his hips snapped forward, taking her wet heat until he came. He could almost picture it, had seen it firsthand multiple times, and the divine image alone threatened to undo him as he teetered on the edge. His wife is enjoying taking her time with him, however, and seems set on driving him into madness as she comes to almost a full stop in her ministrations before sliding over him once again, slow and teasing.

He can almost feel the smile on her lips, wrapped around him and he groans at the unfairness of it.

Its all too much and not enough at the same time, his release only a hair’s breadth away. Reduced to whimpers and incoherent begging, he surrenders to her, unable to do anything else, tied down and blind. He’s trapped, as he writhes under his love’s languid attentions.

Unbidden, the terror begins to creep along the edges of his mind, in the darkness, waiting. Curled, winding, ready to strike out like the insidious serpent it was. It sees its chance, as he loses himself in this moment, vulnerable and defenseless as a fawnling. He bites into his arm, hissing. _No_ , he demands. _No, stay away-!_

It’s getting closer, slithering in anticipation, entangling itself like a vine around his pleasure-laden consciousness, wrapping around his spine and suddenly the panic is there, frantic and suffocating, and he can hardly breath. Knives in the darkness, coming straight for his him. He needs Byleth, he needs to see his star. He needs the light. He needs release!

“ _Ghorbunet Beram!_ ” The words rip from his throat, hoarse and desperate.

Byleth moves off of him in an instant, and he feels the relief like an adrenaline rush as he feels her crawl over him, working at his restraints until he feels the coolness of bare skin and open air on his wrists.

Once his arms are freed, he wastes no time, ripping the scarf from his eyes. The world returns to him a flurry of colors, soft, dancing shadows reflected from the candlelight, still flickering within their private chambers. His chest rises and falls heavily, as he tries to catch his breath.

_Safe. You are safe…!_

“I got you, love…I got you…” Byleth’s coaxes gently, hands on his shoulders, rubbing soothing patterns over his shaking form. “Your safe…I got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath as he calms down. The darkness is dissipating, and there is only this moment, only them. Their bedroom a quiet sanctuary, filled with Byleth’s whispers of love and comfort and his own heavy breathing.

_Safe. Loved._

Claude turns to regard his wife, facing the starlight of his life. Her face is laced with concern, bathed in the dim light of their bedroom, her beautiful jade eyes searching his own for any signs of the lingering terror. He knows she would take it all away, if she could. All the pain from his past, all the hurt and rejection. He feels his heart wrench at the thought, overcome with her and everything she offers him. He reaches for her, his Polaris made flesh, grasping her face and pulling her close.

_I love you. I see you. You are wanted. You are safe._

“Kharâbetam…” He breathes, meaning it with every ounce of his being. “I love you, with everything I am…”

She laughs, relieved, a shaky, trembling thing. “I love you, Khalid.”

They fall into each other, the heat between them still unresolved and Claude needing, craving, more. His wife’s work unfinished. He needed to appease the wildfire still roaring, relentless through his blood, now that the darkness was safely at bay, for now, all that was left for him was her. This moment, just them. Raw, open and together.

She doesn’t resist when he forces her to hands and knees, grasping desperately at her hips. Now that he had regained control of himself, of the situation, she was all too happy to follow his lead. He had not seen the terror in his face, mixed with the pleasure she had given him, like she had. Twisting and frantic. Whatever she could do to help him, to bring him back to her, she would give him willingly.

He wanted to be gentle, he really did, but the thundering in his heart and his blood wouldn’t allow it and as he sunk into her welcoming heat, he released a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh or groan, a grateful mix of the two perhaps. His hips snapped forward, sending Byleth lurching to her forearms, as he set a brutal pace. His wife’s cries of pleasure, a mantra of his name, alternating between the name of his birth and the name he had chosen for himself all those years ago, only served to urge him on. Despite his harsh pacing, he could feel her hips pushing back against him, eager, chasing her second release as she became lost in their frantic dance.

Sweat trickled lazy trails down his face, arms and back as he took her in. His sight returned, he could only whisper prayers of thanks and filthy words of encouragement as he basked in the sight of his wife beneath him, as she met each demanding thrust with her own vigor. Her skin bright and wet with her own exertion, damp seafoam tresses a delightful mess. Gods, if he could keep this image with him for all of time, if he could commission Ignatz to paint her this way, he would. But he’d be damned if he allowed any other to see her this way, wrecked and wanting. No, this was his and his alone to enjoy.

“Cl-Claude -!” Her voice was urgent, pleading, and he could feel her coming to her end as her walls began to tighten around him.

She came with a strangled cry, constricting his cock so tightly he thought he might die as he felt her tremble and quiver around him. It was all he needed and was quick to chase his own release soon after in a burst of paralyzing white heat, her name a holy hymn on his tongue, sending a harsh shockwave through his whole body as he buried himself deep within his lover. Panting, they caught their breath. Hips rocking slowly, allowing the tremors to subside, Claude bent forward to grace his wife’s back with long, tender kisses.

“Love you, so much…” He mumbled, against the saltiness of her flesh. “So much…”

Spent, the young king and queen fell limply onto their mattress. Claude had just enough strength to gather his beloved into his arms, where she rested her head on the broadness of his chest. She loved to listen to his heart, and the hammering rhythm it made now reminded her he was alive and well, she smiled softly, but worry lingered in her eyes as she turned them to look up at him.

“Are you sure you are ok?” She asks, lifting a hand to his face.

Still trying to catch his breath, he nods kissing the top of her head. They are both sweat and lingering fire, so he tastes the salt of her even in her hair. “I am fine, starlight. I will be fine. I just wasn’t expecting…well, not that I’ve ever done that before, so I honestly didn’t know what to expect to be fair.”

“Perhaps we need more warning, for next time?” She suggested, caressing his face. Her fingers brushing against the hairs of his beard. “More signals?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking down at her. “For next time, huh? Did someone enjoy having their poor husband tied up, and at their mercy a little too much? Should I be concerned? Shall I call for the guard to save me from the evil designs of my wife upon my poor person?”

“Hmmm I changed my mind. Maybe next time, we should gag you as well.”

Claude laughed, kissing the back of her hand. “Ah-ha! I see, how cruel you can be, starlight! Lucky for you, I quite enjoy it.”

He gave her a mischievous wink, to which Byleth only smiled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at his flirting. They agreed, next time they would prepare another signal for her own peace of mind, as they cuddled into each other, speaking in hushed tones only they could hear long into the night, safe in their private sanctum. Soon enough, their banter lulled her into a deep sleep, her breathing relaxed and even, and Claude found his wife resting easily against him now.

_I am safe. Loved. Wanted in your arms._

He stared down at her, eyes soft as he ran his fingers through her hair.

Yes, he still suffered from the nightmares from time to time, but in the end he knew she would always be there. His partner and champion, as impossible as she ever was, as her very existence continued to be to him. To chase all the nightmares away, as long as she breathed. Maybe even long after him, because only the gods knew the expiration date of her blood, she would remain in the dream they had created together. To ensure no more nightmares, creeping in the shadows, threatened the peace they had worked for, had sacrificed for, with her sword, blazing always as a light within the darkness. Guiding them, him, the future generations back from the brink of oblivion and despair.

Leaning down, he kissed her softly. He smiled, tasting only sweetness and hope, before falling into a deep, peaceful slumber filled with all the dreams they had yet to achieve, but were still somehow within reach always, with her by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Ghorbunet Beram - For you I would die
> 
> Kharâbetam - Literally, “I’m ruined for you”. This is a romantic slang phrase commonly used to mean that you are so crazy about a person and would do anything for them.
> 
> A note on Claude using their safe word – Not all BDSM (soft or otherwise) experiences end this way, but this is the first time the Byleth and Claude from my au have engaged in this kind of play. They are still learning.
> 
> Shout-out to Wearwind & deleitrious for their support and suffering through all of the sadness! T-T Sorry guys!


End file.
